John Biscello

Imagine snow. Imagine the symmetry of falling snow. Imagine the quiltlike cocoon of snow covering earth. Imagine the silence of snow sounding everywhere softly. Imagine you are old and cold in snow. Imagine you are young and running in snow. You dash behind snowdrifts. You compile an arsenal of snowballs. You sprint, picking up speed, before you hurl yourself to the ground and bellysled across a lane of slick snow. The snow is falling in curlicues, in torn angel feathers. It is pooling frosty specters. From out of the snow, or from inside it, you hear your mother’s voice from a distance calling for you to come home. Kisten to your mother’s calling, but do not return home. Stand outside bare-faced to winter and imagine all the dead people you know. They are making snow angels in the snow.